


Do Your Duty

by Anathema Device (notowned)



Series: Lead me to your door [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Infidelity, Will be Slash, nonexplicit f/m
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 03:18:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8385169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notowned/pseuds/Anathema%20Device
Summary: What if Athos had married Catherine de Garouville instead?





	

**Author's Note:**

> After rewatching "The Return', I couldn't help but wonder what Athos's life would have been like if he'd married Catherine instead, and he had never tried to hang Anne.
> 
> This series will be slash in later instalments. This story takes Athos up to the point when he joins The Musketeers.

The scent of jasmine filtered through piss-soaked straw and horse manure wasn’t the loveliest smell in the world, but it attracted Olivier to the source like a wasp to honey. “Anne, what are you doing here?”

She stepped out of the empty stall at the end of the stable. He had never seen her look more lovely. Or more angry. “Come to offer you my congratulations, my lord.” She curtseyed. “I heard the banns being read. I’m sure you and Catherine will be _ecstatically_ happy together.”

He caught her shoulders and drew her to him, nuzzling at her long, white neck, her dark hair tumbling down her back. He tangled his hands in it. “I’m sorry.”

She pulled away and glared at him. “Not enough to refuse to be engaged to that...that harridan.”

He didn’t attempt to reach her again. “I have my duty. I must keep the lands and provide an heir to the title.”

She put her hands over her belly. “Is not my womb as fecund as hers? Does one cunt not taste as sweet as another? Or does the blue blood add a certain something we commoners can never offer?’

Athos winced. “No, darling, it doesn’t. But my father will never accept you, and I can’t go against his wishes.”

“Why not? You will be the _comte_ no matter who you marry!”

“My path is not of my own choosing. If it were, I would marry you and leave this place forever. Please, Anne. I never made promises to you. You knew I had to marry within my rank.”

“You _promised_ me you were good and clever and upright. All I see now is a spineless liar beholden to the wishes of a man who doesn’t even love you as a son. Let her marry Thomas, and get heirs from him. Come away with me, Athos. You love me and you always will.” She held out her hands to him and he took them. “You and I will always be bound together. Why marry this woman you don’t love? Why Catherine de Garouville and not me?”

“Her father’s estate—”

She flung herself away from him, and sneered. “That’s all that matters, isn’t it? Money, land, reputation. Love is worthless to the nobility.”

“No, it’s not. But my duty—”

Her upper lip curled as she walked towards him. “Good luck fucking your duty and letting it keep you warm in the sheets, _monsieur le comte_ in waiting. I never want to see you again. Coward.”

Olivier reached for her, but she avoided his grasp and stalked away. He leaned his forehead against a post, and tried very hard not to weep.

**************************************

The wedding was a lavish affair, far from Olivier’s taste. Catherine’s family had insisted her rank as the daughter of Baron de Garouville and that of the family she was marrying into demanded a proper display of wealth and status, and Olivier’s father had agreed wholeheartedly. So La Fère’s great hall was hung with fine silk tapestries, and adorned with flowers and gilded ornaments, while the church was filled with the noble families of the estates bounding the two properties. After the ceremony, as the villagers cheered the young couple outside the church, Baron Rénard welcomed Athos’s new bride effusively and kissed her on both cheeks. “A fine filly you’ve caught yourself, Olivier. She’ll give you many strong sons, I’m sure.”

“Thank you, Rénard. I believe Father was looking for you.”

“Must congratulate him too. If only Edmond had been a few years older, I’d have snapped this one up under his nose.”

Olivier smiled politely. He strongly disliked Rénard’s way of talking about women. Fortunately, he had very few occasions to listen to the old windbag, and would ensure these did not increase in number.

“Olivier!” Thomas ran up to him, grinning. He looked so handsome in his new outfit, chosen by Catherine herself. “How does it feel to be married, eh?”

“Much the same as not being married. No offence intended, my dear,” he said, bowing to Catherine.

“You’ve hardly had a chance to savour the joys of conjugal bliss, Olivier,” Catherine said with a smile.

 _Oh God._ He’d have to sleep with her tonight. Olivier had tried not to think of it. His only experience of sex had been with Anne, who had not been a virgin, and had taught him things he suspected a virgin nobleman had no business knowing. Anne had told him that he pleased her, but would it be enough for Catherine?

“You look nervous, Olivier.”

“No, not at all,” he lied smoothly. “But I think people are waiting for us to lead them into the house. Ah, there’s Father now.”

The _comte_ huffed in irritation as he strode up. “What are you waiting for, Olivier? A gilded invitation?” He bowed to Catherine. “You need to use a strong hand with this one, my dear. You are the mistress of the household now. Lack of promptness and attention to the proper formalities will reflect on you as much as on me.”

“Then I will endeavour to begin as I mean to go on, my lord.” She curtseyed to him. “If my lord would be so kind as to set the pace? And where are my parents, I wonder?” She took Olivier’s arm and held it firmly. “Come along, Olivier, and hold your head up. Let everyone see your pride in this union.”

He obeyed, though he scarcely needed her guidance on the way to behave in public. His father marched ahead, and they followed, with the rest of the family falling in behind. Catherine’s parents joined them, inserting themselves behind their daughter and her new husband as she now outranked them. Olivier paid little attention to such insignificant matters. He scanned the gathering, wondering if Anne would break her word and seek to catch a glimpse of the wedding party after all. She, of course, had not been invited. As a gentleman farmer’s illegitimate daughter, she had no standing to be at the feast, even if her late father had been an old and close friend of Olivier’s own. Yet the difference between their ranks had never stopped her finding Olivier before, or meeting with him to pursue their ill-fated love.

But he saw no sign of her, nor of her half-brother who had been invited. She really had cut Olivier off completely. She always was the more practical of the two of them.

The harvest would be a poor one this year, with unseasonal lack of rain and blight affecting the crops already in the fields, but his father had demanded a rich feast and had got one. Olivier’s stomach roiled with nervousness over the evening to come, so he ate little, but Catherine made sure his cup was never empty, and Thomas provided such good company, the laughter overrode Olivier’s common sense when it came to drink. By the time it came for the company to riotously and drunkenly escort the young couple to their chamber, Olivier was past his nervousness, and almost past the ability to walk. He and Catherine were undressed with joyful shouts and encouragement, and his father yelled his approval once the bed curtains had been drawn around them.

Olivier found himself staring at his new bride. She held out her hand. “Come, husband. Make me your wife properly.”

She lay back on the bed, her shift drawn up around her hips, exposing her legs and her cunt. He bent to pleasure her with his mouth, as Anne had schooled him to do. “No!” she cried quietly. “Olivier, what are you thinking? Holy Church forbids such things!”

He flushed. “My apologies, _madame_.”

She spread her legs. “Come, husband. My body is yours now.”

He fumbled his cock out of his small clothes, thinking Anne would have stripped him by now, and had her sinful mouth on him. He had confessed this to the priest on the eve of the wedding, and now was cleansed in the sight of God. Now he must abide by the Church’s teachings, as an honest married man.

He put his fingers inside her, finding her dry and tight. He played with her until she became somewhat wet, but couldn’t help thinking this wouldn’t be any fun for her. Maybe that was right though. She was a wife, not a mistress. “Hurry, now, Olivier! I want your sons. Please, make me your wife!”

Hastily he climbed onto her, and entered her. Her soft cry of pain distressed him, but she held him close and made him continue until he spent. “Oh husband, you have done your duty. What fine sons you will make on me.”

 _Sons_. Yes, those would be good, he thought muzzily. He turned aside to tidy himself and give her a little privacy to do the same. After a few moments, she put her arm around his hips. “Husband, will you not embrace your new-made wife?”

He turned and obeyed. Hesitantly, he kissed her, as he should do, and she kissed his cheek in answer, before rolling over and let him hold her. Yes. This was right, as it had to be. He would love her, and make children with her, and do his duty as a son, father, and husband. Passion was for children, not heirs to a title.

But as he fell asleep, he couldn't help thinking of the taste of Anne’s lips, the scent of her, the tumble of her beautiful hair on her white skin. Surely it was not a sin to just _remember_ pleasure, if one did not intend to sin in the flesh again?

**************************************

Having done his duty and married well, Olivier’s only tasks now were to breed sons, and learn the business of the estate to the extent his father allowed. Oh, and to practice the art of sword and pistol until he was completely proficient, as he had a duty to the crown in times of war and there was no small chance of his services being required. Thomas, the younger son, had more freedom and was rarely seen except at dinner or Mass, spending the days doing what he wished. Catherine ran the household to the _comte_ ’s satisfaction, and if she was harsher with the servants than Olivier’s mother had been, he felt it wasn’t his place to complain or correct. If she was sharper with him than he liked, he excused it by the fact she’d had the responsibility of a large noble house suddenly thrust upon her, and as his father reminded him daily, he was a poor specimen for any woman to have married. She, on the other hand, was everything a good wife should be—willing and obedient in bed, competent in managing the household, thrifty in her husbandry, and at all times showing the correct demeanour and countenance for a woman of her class.

Olivier felt affection for her as befitted someone he’d known since childhood, and believed that in time, he would fall truly in love with her. Perhaps when she bore him a son, for that was the only flaw as a wife she had yet exhibited. Still, Olivier did not blame her. She had been a virgin when she married, for had not the wedding night sheets of their marital bed shown it? It would take time for her body to adjust to the needs of her husband, or so his father—impatient and critical in every other matter to do with Olivier’s faults as a son—assured him. His father had even had Father Duchamp take Olivier aside for an excruciatingly embarrassing inquisition into his conjugal practices, to find out if Olivier actually knew that his seed had to enter his wife’s cunt for pregnancy to occur, and that no other orifice would do for the task.

After a year when Catherine had failed to catch, and Thomas’s jokes on the subject had become more than usually cruel, Olivier refused to talk about it at all with his father, leading to some fearsome rows, and Olivier storming out of the house on several occasions. He found the comfort of his mare, Amethea, invaluable at such times, although ironically she had had no trouble becoming pregnant when bred to Baron Rénard’s best stallion. Olivier intended to keep the foal as his own, and allow Amethea to retire at last, having carried him since he was eight and she but a two-year-old. Her other foals had gone to the stables either at La Fère or Rénard’s estate, but Olivier had claimed this one—probably her last— as a birthday present, and his father had agreed.

Hunting was the only pleasurable activity he and his father now carried out together, even if Olivier had to bite his tongue continually to avoid turning the hunt into a display of poor temper between father and son. Both of them were excellent horsemen, and his father would occasionally grudgingly allow Olivier to be the better shot. On this fine autumn day, Olivier felt the joy of being alive and away from the cares of the succession and the estate, as they chases the roebucks down in the forest for the house larder.

With Amethea having not long to go before her foaling, Olivier was content to take things at an easy pace, letting the dogs and the men take the strain, but his father was impatient. “Race me back,” he demanded.

“Father, I dare not risk the mare.”

“Ridiculous. She’s tougher than you.”

“No doubt, but it would be a shame to lose the dam and the foal for a whim.”

“Pah,” his father spat. “Gérard, you, give me a good race back to the house and I’ll tip you ten livres if you win. I’ll even give you a count of five as a head start.”

“Right you are, my lord.”

“Olivier, you can set us off.”

“Very well.” Olivier raised his hand. “Gérard!” He loudly counted to five, then shouted, “Father!” to send his parent off on his foolhardy escapade.

He didn’t know who would win. Ten livres was a lot of money to a hunter, but keeping the regard of the lord was much more valuable. He was happy to follow on slowly with the rest of the band, carrying three fine stags, and several pigeons.

But ten minutes later, he saw a figure riding pell-mell towards him, waving a hand to get his attention. He urged Amethea into a canter and went to meet the man.

It was Gérard. “My lord, it’s the _comte_! He’s fallen!”

“Take me,” Olivier ordered, and as Gérard’s mount wheeled about, Olivier was already galloping towards the estate. His father lay not a mile from where he’d left them, his horse nowhere to be seen. Olivier slid to the ground and ran to his father, but it was all too clear the man was beyond mortal help. His neck was broken.

Olivier closed his father’s eyes and whispered a quick prayer. Gérard stood nearby, his hat twisting in his hands. “What happened?”

“I heard him shout, and by the time I looked around, he was on the ground, and his horse bolting away. Something made him fall, or made the horse fall.”

Olivier looked around, and found the culprit. A hole, made by a badger or a rabbit, or even just a result of the summer drought. The horse must have stumbled, and at speed, his father would have been thrown hard. “This is not your fault,” he told the man.

“Thank you. My condolences, _monsieur le comte_.”

Olivier jerked up. That was right. He was now the _comte_. God, he did not want this now, not so soon. “Ride back to the house, fetch a cart and my brother. Our father will be carried back honourably. Send someone for the priest.”

Gérard bowed. “Yes, my lord.”

Olivier sat by his father’s body for an hour, waiting for the cart. The hunting band caught up with him, and he bid them wait until his father’s body was ready to be carried back to the estate. When it was, he led the sad procession alone, since Thomas had not been found to accompany their father on his last journey. At the house, Catherine ran out to embrace him. “Oh my dear, I’m so sorry.” Father Duchamp followed behind him.

“Catherine, you are now the _comtesse de La Fère._ Everyone, kneel and pray for the soul of the lord Robert _de La Fère_. Father Duchamp, please do your duty.”

The priest led them in solemn prayer, then the body was carried into the great hall to lie in state. The priest anointed the dead man’s forehead, then prayed for the new _comte_ and his wife. “I will stay here in vigil tonight,” Olivier told Catherine. “See to it that Thomas is found and brought here too. And have the carpenter ready a coffin for my father’s remains.”

She curtseyed. “Yes, my lord husband.”

“Those of you who wish to remain, may do so. My father will rest here for two days and nights. Father Duchamp, I will pay for a month of Masses in his name.”

“Yes, my lord. The requiem will be two days’ hence?”

“If you please.”

Olivier knelt and bowed his head. Around him, people either knelt or left, came in and left as tasks required it. He paid no attention. This was his last duty as a son, to pray for his father’s immortal soul, and to see him properly interred in the family vault, before he took on his new duties as heir.

Thomas joined him that evening, whispering an apology for being absent. Olivier put his hand on his brother’s shoulder and forgave him. This was not an occasion for petty reprimands.

More people came to the funeral than to Olivier’s wedding, and many were anxious to offer their condolences in person. Understandable, since they would now have to deal with him instead of his father, but Olivier was so caught up in grief he barely registered who had said what to him. Catherine thankfully took on the role of thanking people and accepting their good wishes, and Thomas was as dutiful a son as his father could have ever have wished in his observances of the rituals.

They stood together as his father’s coffin was laid in the family vault, waiting for a more impressive and permanent tomb to be constructed over the coming months. “I will need your help, brother,” Olivier said. “I cannot do this alone.”

“You will have it, I swear.”

For the first time, Olivier allowed himself to break down, and wept on Thomas’s shoulder. At some point, Thomas passed him to Catherine, who took him to their chamber and gave him wine. Olivier slept hard, and woke with a sense of dull dread. Now he had to take up his father’s duties, but he felt so unready to do so.

Catherine sat up beside him. “Are you well, Olivier?”

“Well enough,” he lied. “Thank you for helping me.”

“It is my duty, and my pleasure, my husband. I have some news which may ease your grief.”

He had lost track of time. “Has Amethea foaled then?”

She laughed. “Not that I know of. But there will be a birth in a few months.” She put his hand on her stomach. “Your child is in my womb, I can feel it.”

His eyes widened with shock. “Truly?”

“Madame Lacroix came to me several days ago to make sure. I will bear you a fine son, and many after that. I was about to tell you, but that night you brought your revered father’s body home and it was not the time.”

He embraced her. “My dear Catherine. This is the best news I could have wished for. My father would have rejoiced too.”

“I’m sure he knows, Olivier.”

They lay together more comfortably and happily than at any time since their wedding day. _I will be a father_. His son would have the affection and approval that he himself had never had, and he would be a good man. Olivier vowed it.

When a week later, Amethea produced a fine little colt, whom Olivier named Roger, it seemed that despite his sorrow over the loss of his father, his life finally held the promise of true happiness. While he and Catherine had not made any announcement to their friends regarding her pregnancy, she and Thomas and Olivier had rejoiced in private. “Now all we need to do is find a wife for you, brother,” Olivier said.

Thomas laughed. “Not yet, Olivier. I’m not ready for the responsibility of parenthood. Not like you.”

“I’m not sure _I’m_ ready,” Olivier confessed.

Catherine had lightly smacked his arm. “Nonsense. You will be a wonderful father, and don’t forget, my parents will be here to counsel us both.”

“That will be a comfort. I’m afraid I know more about baby horses, than baby people.”

“Leave that to me,” she said. “It is a mother’s duty to rear the youngsters. You will not find me deficient, I promise.”

“Dearest Catherine, the only deficient one in our marriage is me. My father chose well when he arranged our union.”

Thomas laughed, but Olivier silenced him with a look. “And I will do the same for you, Thomas. It isn’t fit for the brother of a _comte_ to run around wenching and drinking and gambling like a soldier.”

“Allow me a little fun in my youth, brother. I’ll settle down soon enough.”

Only two days after that conversation, Catherine rose from their bed, and looked in horror at the blood on her shift and the sheet. “Send for Madame Lacroix,” she whispered. In a panic, Olivier yelled for her lady’s maid, for his valet, to find the midwife and bring her to the _comtesse_ immediately.

He waited outside their chamber all day, praying and pacing, while Madame Lacroix and Catherine’s maid attended his wife. As the sun began to set, Madame Lacroix emerged, her face solemn. She curtseyed. “She has lost the child, _monsieur le comte_. A common event in a first pregnancy, I am sad to say.”

Olivier’s breath caught in his chest and he could make no sound for a moment or two. “Is...is she well? Can she have other children?”

“She is tired and needs rest, but there is no reason she will not fall pregnant and bear you a son. This happens to many women, my lord. I myself experienced this sorrow. I advise you to be gentle, and kind, and when she is recovered, you can both try again.”

“Can I go to her?”

“Yes. God will bless you soon, my lord. I am sure of it.”

He let her leave and went into the bedroom. Catherine looked as pale as the sheets she lay upon. He took her hand. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I failed.”

“Hush, not at all, my dear. It’s a common thing, she says. We will try again. And again. You will give me a son, I feel it in my bones. And he will ride Roger, and Roger’s son, and you will be the finest mother ever seen at La Fère.”

She smiled weakly. “No mother could be finer than yours, my husband.” Tears fell from her eyes, trickling down her cheeks. He kissed them away and held her tight. They would survive this sorrow together.

Thomas received the news calmly. “So long as she is healthy, there is no reason to doubt she will become pregnant again. Tis but a setback. You will father many sons, and I will gladly surrender my inheritance to them. I want to be an uncle, not the _comte_.”

“Because that would interfere with the wenching and gambling,” Olivier said, making a mighty effort to smile a little.

“Especially the wenching,” Thomas said, his hand on Olivier’s shoulder. “Courage, brother. You are both young and healthy and graced by God. We shall pray together for her womb to quicken again, and soon.”

He recognised the truth of Thomas’s words, and knew in his heart that this was not an end to his hopes. But the two losses, of father and child, so close together, weighed on his mind, and though he had much to do, and enough accounts and ledgers and reports to read to last him until his dotage, he had to escape from it all. Several times a day he found himself at the stables, watching Amethea suckle her foal, taking a pleasure in the one simple, unadulterated joy in his life. Being a horse was so much easier than being a _comte_.

He went outside to get some fresh air, sitting on a bench behind the stables, wishing he could just take one of the horses and ride for hours, without thinking of his woes. The late afternoon air held the scent of flowers and hay....

And jasmine. “Anne?” he said quietly, though he had no real hope she was there.

To his astonishment, she stepped out from the side of the stables. “Olivier.”

“Anne, what are you doing here?” He stood and went to put his arms around her, but remembered that he could not, should not, now. His arms fell to his sides, though he could not helping looking his desire to hold her.

“I came to offer my condolences, of course.”

“How did you hear about the baby? We told no one.”

She frowned. “What baby, Olivier? I meant your father. You lost...oh. I’m so sorry.” She held out her hand and he took it. “You look worn out.”

“I feel like an ancient. I’ve missed you. Have you been well?”

“Well enough. I thought you would be a father by now, for sure.”

He let go of her hand. “We have not thus blessed so far. Have you found a husband yet?”

She laughed. “Me? Where would I find one? And why would any decent man want me?”

“Why would they not? Any man would be proud to have you as his bride, Anne.”

“Any man but you, you mean.” He opened his mouth to respond but she shook her head. “I didn’t come here to quarrel. How do you like being the _comte_?”

“I hate it. I would give anything to have my father back and alive and in charge. I miss him dreadfully.”

“He was never kind to you, Olivier.”

“He saw my many flaws and tried to correct them. He was right. I’m proving it now. I can’t run the estate like he could, I can’t father sons. I can’t even find a wife for my brother, since he refuses to allow me to do so.”

She grimaced. “Strange he found you so flawed, when I find you so good.”

“That’s not what you said last time we met.”

She shrugged. “I was angry. You are ten times the man your father was, and Thomas—” She drew in a breath. “Thomas needs whipping, if you ask me.”

“Anne!”

“Either that, or to be sent into the army. He has no role and he’s wasting his life the way he’s behaving.”

He shook his head at the thought of Thomas’s faults. “On that, we are agreed. I’m so glad you came to see me. Can we not be friends now, at least?”

“I suspect I don’t measure up to your wife’s idea of respectable company for you.”

“But when you marry—”

“I will not. I refuse to let a man I do not love have dominion over me.”

“But, darling Anne, surely you could find a man you loved.”

She regarded him steadily with those limpid green eyes that inhabited his dreams so often. “I did. He married someone else.”

Instinctively, he reached for her, but she moved away. “No. It’s not allowed now. I have to go, Olivier. My condolences.”

He watched her walk away towards Pinon, then put his head in his hands. He could never have married her while his father was alive, and now he was dead, Olivier still couldn’t marry her. If it was so wrong to love her, why did God allow him to?

**************************************

Catherine was up and about within a week, and by silent agreement, the lost child was never mentioned again. Olivier was careful to be gentle and solicitous in his lovemaking, and at pains not to suggest any urgency for her to become pregnant again. The last thing he wanted to suggest was that he was impatient for a son. Catherine was a good wife and ran the household in admirable fashion. She was not a brood mare.

Thomas hung around the house for three weeks and helped with what he could until he considered Olivier over his grief, then he promptly returned to his former ways and was rarely seen during the daytime. Olivier despaired of him maturing any time soon. “Perhaps I should buy him a commission in the army,” he said to Catherine one night after Thomas had had to be helped to bed, having come to dinner drunk and leaving it quite incapable.

“Give him time, dear. Think of the difference five years made in you.”

“Not enough, according to my father.”

“He was wrong, I think,” she said, touching his face. “Will you not take me tonight, husband? Give me a son, I pray you.”

He pulled her into his arms. “No need to beg, dear wife. It is a pleasure, not my duty.” For he had come to accept the married way of sex as the right and normal one, at least between husband and wife, and to give her the children she so earnestly craved would be a joy for both of them. There was more to life than bedding women for a few hours of sinful fun.

The harvests were done, and the rents had been paid. When he wasn’t meeting his estate manager, Guillame, Olivier spent much of his days at his desk on accounts, and dealing with tenant complaints. Some days he never left his library except to relieve himself, from breakfast to dinner. Catherine did not need his help to run the household, and his father had hired capable staff who could deal with the rest while he wrestled with the sums and the responses to the complaints.

The servants knew not to bother him, and Catherine never had need to. When the door to the library suddenly rang one October morning with the pounding of fists while he was working out a particularly irritating tax problem, he readied himself to verbally flay the hide off the servant interrupting him. But before he could open his mouth, the man—one of the grooms blurted, “It’s Master Thomas, my lord. He’s been murdered!”

Olivier stood frozen. “Thomas? How?”

“Message from Pinon, my lord. A woman stabbed him. Mistress bids you come now.”

He ran to the great hall, where Catherine held his riding gloves and cloak. “Oh, Olivier, it’s dreadful news, if it be true.”

“Who...where is the one who carried the message?”

She flicked her fingers at a man standing by the wall. “You. Come tell your lord what happened.”

The man bowed. “My wife heard a scream from the blacksmith’s, my lord. When we went to look, we found your brother already dead, and Mademoiselle de Breuil holding a dagger, blood all over her.”

“Mademoiselle...do you mean Anne de Breuil?”

“Yes, my lord. She’s being held at my house at your lordship’s pleasure.”

Olivier shook his head. “Why on earth would she murder Thomas?”

“I dunno, my lord.”

Catherine turned her back on the man. “Olivier, you must find out. You are the magistrate.”

“Yes. You, Jean,” he snapped at the groom. “Saddle my horse, and have a cart and three men follow me to Pinon. You,” he said to the messenger. “Did you come by horse?”

“No, my lord.”

“Then find a mount for...your name, sirrah?”

“Maçon, my lord.”

“Right, a mount for him as well. You can follow at your own pace. Catherine, my dear, this could take some time.”

“I expected it would.” She came to him and clutched his hands to her bosom. “Can it be true? Thomas, dead?”

“It must be a mistake. There’s no earthly reason why she would...why Mademoiselle de Breuil would kill him. Or kill anyone.” He kissed her forehead. “I’ll send word to let you know how long I’ll be.”

“If she killed him, she will hang. Promise me.”

“If she killed anyone at all, she will hang.” He took his gloves and cloak from her. “Pray for us, dear wife, for I fear we are cursed once more.”

“I pray it’s all a terrible mistake. God speed, my lord husband.”

Amethea was brought round, and Olivier rode at the fastest gallop he dared down the road to Pinon. He didn’t need to ask which house was Maçon’s. The entire population of Pinon stood outside it, waiting for their _comte_ to come and dispense justice. They bowed, and the innkeeper, Bertrand, approached. “This is a bad business, my lord.”

“Show me the body, Bertrand.”

Bertrand took him into the smithy, where a body lay covered with canvas. Olivier knelt on one knee and lifted up the cloth. He sucked in a breath, and his vision sparkled. _Thomas_. Thomas was really dead, stabbed in the stomach and his throat cut. On the ground near him lay two daggers—one was Thomas’s, with blood on the tip, and the other Olivier didn’t recognise. He left them where they lay.

He stood, taking a moment to steady himself and to wipe away his tears, then offered a prayer for his brother’s soul. “Take me to the woman who is claimed to have done this.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The crowd cleared in front of him as he stalked into the cottage. Anne—for it really was her—was tied to a chair in the middle of the room, and gagged. There was blood on the front of her dress and on her bosom. “Why is she gagged?” Olivier demanded of Bertrand. Anne glared at him with raw fury in her beautiful eyes.

“She kept spewing such filth, my lord. Saying terrible blasphemies and slandering your brother, may he rest in peace.”

“Ungag her. Anne, I caution you to keep a civil tongue in your head or I’ll have it removed, do you understand?”

She gave him a poisonous look but nodded, spitting and coughing as Bertrand removed the dirty cloth. “Leave us,” Olivier told him.

“My lord—”

“I said, leave us!”

Bertrand scurried out, no doubt in shock at Olivier’s bellow. Olivier turned to the prisoner. “Did you kill Thomas?”

Anne glared at him. “Yes, and I’m not sorry. He tried to rape me, Olivier. I had no choice!”

Olivier sagged against a post. “Why not scream for help? Why were you alone with him in the first place? Where is your brother?”

“I tried to scream but he covered my mouth and put his dagger to my throat. He cut me, can’t you see?” Olivier came close to examine a long cut on her neck. It was still bleeding sluggishly and would probably scar. He pulled out his clean handkerchief and fastened it carefully around her neck as a dressing. “As to why? He told me he had a message for me. From you, a private one. Seems your little brother had been watching us for some time.”

“Lower your damn voice,” Olivier hissed. “Where’s _your_ brother?”

“Away on business in England.”

“You should have left it to him to defend your honour.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh please excuse me, my lord _comte_ , for not trusting that one man would give a damn about the virtue or otherwise of a bastard, since he was the one who took my virginity from me in the first place. The only question would be whether he stopped Thomas so _he_ could rape me, or took his own turn after Thomas.”

Bile rose in his throat. “Anne....your brother?”

She sneered. “Don’t look so shocked, Olivier. Half the women in this village have probably been forced to give themselves to brothers or fathers. And it’s not like you were over-concerned by my lack of virtue.”

“Keep your voice down, damn it. They’d brand you as a whore if they weren’t expecting me to hang you as a murderess. Damn you, Anne. You could have come to me! I would never have allowed him to do this to you.”

“You weren’t here, Olivier. His dagger and his eager prick were. You have to help me. I did nothing wrong.”

“You don’t understand. Your word means nothing. You killed a nobleman. You leave me no choice in the matter, and were I to free you, my brother’s friends, my fellow nobles, would hunt you down and do worse than anything he threatened to. And _then_ they’ll hang you.”

“You can’t...you can’t hang me,” she whispered. “Please help me.”

He was torn between anger at Thomas, anger at Anne for killing him even if she had no choice, and desperation at the situation which looked to force him to hang the woman he adored. “When does your brother return?”

“Not for a month or more.”

“Do you have funds?”

“At the house. A few coins. Not enough to live on. Henri, our groom, would help me with a horse and supplies. Please, Olivier. Don’t kill me for defending myself.”

“I’ll work something out.” Hope sprang in her eyes. “But for now, we must pretend I will carry out my duty. Do you understand?” She nodded. “Then play along.” He raised his voice. “Say your prayers, Anne de Breuil, for you must die.”

“Olivier! No, you can’t! Olivier, please!”

Apparently ignoring her desperate cries, Olivier stalked outside and found Bertrand. “When the cart from the estate arrives, have my brother’s body placed in it. The woman will be hanged in the morning at the estate, where I can observe.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I will remain with my brother until the cart appears. All of you, disperse, go back to your occupations. This isn’t a mummer’s play.”

The villagers fled, but Bertrand lingered. “Leave me alone,” Olivier ordered.

Bertrand bowed. “Yes, my lord. My condolences.”

He should have spent the time praying for his brother’s soul, but somehow he suspected that would do no good where it was now. But Anne could be saved. His mind worked furiously, thinking of how he could get her away and safe without anyone knowing he had done so.

Not long after, the cart and Maçon arrived. Thomas’s body was borne away, still under the piece of canvas. “Take my brother’s body to the house,” Olivier ordered his men. “Tell my wife I have things to do before I deal with the woman and bring her to the estate.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He rode to the de Breuil farm, and called for Henri when he reached the stables. “My lord,” Henri said, bowing. “How can I be of assistance?”

“Your mistress has been found guilty of murder and must hang for her crime, monsieur.”

The young man gasped. “Anne? My God, no. It can’t be true!”

“It is, for it is my brother she has killed.” Olivier dismounted and walked into the stable, beckoning Henri to follow. Once he was sure they were alone, he asked quietly, “If there was a way to save her from the rope, would you do so?”

“With all my heart, my lord! I would do anything for the mistress.”

“I was hoping you would say that.”

When he was done, Olivier returned to the village and called for Anne to be brought from the house. With the help of his own men, placed her on the horse loaned to Maçon. Her hands were tied in front of her, and Olivier tied the reins of her horse to his saddle’s pommel. “I will ride ahead and deal with this creature.”

He dared not untie her lest someone see her, but Anne was an excellent horsewoman and managed the canter Olivier set for the horses. “What do you plan to do with me?” she asked as he slowed near the church.

“I have an idea, but I must speak to the priest first.”

“The _priest_?”

“Be quiet, Anne. I need to think.”

“That’s all right, I’ll just contemplate the thought of being _hanged_ tomorrow.”

He gave her a look. “I'm _trying_ to stop that happening.”

He took them to the presbytery behind the church. “Stay here,” he told her. “Run and I can’t help you.” She nodded. He hoped he would be worthy of her trust.

“Father Duchamp!” Olivier banged on the door.

Moments later the old priest opened it. His sister and housekeeper hovered in the background. “My lord, what is the matter?”

“My brother has been murdered, and the woman who killed him is here and will require to cleanse her soul before she is hanged.”

“My God.” The priest quickly crossed himself.

“I wish to imprison her in the church overnight so she may reflect on her crimes.”

“As you wish, my lord. Bring her inside. I’ll fetch the keys.”

Olivier helped Anne from the horse and led her into the church, where he untied her hands. Then he risked a quick kiss on her cheek, and spoke in a whisper. “Henri has agreed to help. All I need is Father Duchamp’s agreement to let you go in the night.” He removed the makeshift dressing from her neck. “I’ll have him bind this for you.”

She held his hands. “Come with me, Olivier. You know your wife doesn’t love you the way I do.”

He pushed her hands away. “I can’t. Catherine and I are married and I take that seriously. If I’ve made a mistake, I cannot let another suffer for it.”

“You were happy for _me_ to suffer for it.”

“Anne, please. Must we spend the little time left to us in argument?”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You can’t just leave Pinon, you must leave France. Your name will be posted in every town and city, and you can be lawfully killed on sight. I will give you enough money to reach England. If you wish, I’ll let your brother know—”

“No, never. I’m glad to be away from him. But to never see you again, Olivier? Can you be so cruel?”

“You speak as if I would not suffer for your loss. Enough. This is all I can do for you. Your path was set the moment you killed Thomas.”

“He tried to—”

He put his hand over her mouth. “Yes. You had no choice. Now, I can do only one of two things. Hang you, or help you escape. Choose.”

She stared at him. “I’ll go.”

He seized her hands and kissed her fingertips, but sprang away from her as he heard the door opening. “There you are, my lord.” The priest limped over and handed him a set of keys. “This is the woman?”

“Yes. Her name is Anne de Breuil.” Olivier drew the old man aside, away from Anne. “Father, my brother...I’m sorry to say that he was killed while attempting to rape her.”

Father Duchamp clutched his throat. “My God! But this is a defence, my lord.”

“Aye. But he was noble, and she but the bastard child of a gentleman. I would release her, but I fear she would not last a day once my brother’s friends and peers discovered what I had done. I beg you, holy father, to help me carry out true justice.”

“But how, my son?”

“I’ll lock her in here with you as her guard. Once the tenth hour has been struck, her servant will knock. Simply unlock the door and let her leave. I have arranged for someone to bring a horse and other necessities to her.”

“What about funds?”

Olivier frowned. “You will be well rewarded, Father.”

“I meant for her, my son.”

“Ah. I’ve made arrangements for that. Will you do this for me?”

“Yes, I will. I’m sorry for your brother’s death, but to rape a woman is a mortal sin, and to defend oneself is permitted by God.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Olivier felt as if a stone had been lifted from his chest. “Let me speak to her again...and could I ask you to feed her and provide a clean bandage for her throat? My brother felt the need to wound her as well.”

“That boy...have prayers been said for his soul, my son?”

“I prayed, though I fear since he died without absolution, there’s little point.”

“Nonetheless, I will do so this evening, and for this unfortunate woman.”

“Thank you. Take my pistol, because you shouldn’t guard such a dangerous criminal without one.” He handed it to the priest and showed him how to use it, though he urged him not to unless actually attacked. “I’ll come to the church at eight, and ‘discover’ her escape. I will have to speak unkindly to you if there are witnesses for ‘falling asleep’ and letting her get away. Please forgive me in advance.”

The priest chuckled. “Come to confession and God will forgive you, as I will readily do as well. The rites for your brother?”

“We’ll speak of them tomorrow. My thoughts on the subject are...disordered. But he shall be buried with the rest of the family.”

“Of course. If you give me the keys I will lock up behind you.”

Olivier handed them back, and went over to Anne. “It’s all arranged. I’ll leave a good sum of money behind the church as I have arranged with Henri. He’ll come for you at ten o’clock, and ride with you as long as you need him, but I beg you not to endanger his innocent life for your own. Let him come home. I’ve given your household an excuse that he’s to try and find your brother, or at least send word. That gives you a week or so to find a safe passage to England. I’ll direct any search in the other direction, towards Paris.”

“You’ve thought of everything.”

“You’re precious to me, even though we cannot be together. Never doubt that.”

She bit her lip. “And...should I need your help again?”

“If you must contact me—and I do mean, ‘must’, because I won’t risk my name and honour or that of my family for anything other than the most dire situation—enclose a flower. Do _not_ use your name. Never use it again, in fact. But it’s best if you don’t need me. We must part, Anne. God speed.” He kissed her forehead.

“Olivier, I love you.”

“And I you, Anne, but I’m married to another. That’s the end of it.”

He nodded to Father Duchamp, and left the church. He heard the locks being fastened, and he would order no one to go to the church until he turned up the next morning. By then, Anne and Henri should have had a good head start, and Olivier could give them more by saying Anne had pleaded with him to be allowed to go to friends in Paris, and lead any search party that way.

He took the horses to the stables, and returned to the house. Thomas’s body had only just been taken to the Great Hall, and was still covered with canvas. Catherine ran to him, crying. “Olivier, your brother is dead!”

“Yes, I know.” He embraced her and soothed her tears. His murderer will hang tomorrow. She’s imprisoned in the church under Father Duchamp’s holy care, where she can beg forgiveness for her crime.” He raised his voice. “No one is to approach the church until tomorrow morning, is that clear?” The servants gathered in the hall bowed and curtseyed at his words.

“But husband, to leave a woman like that with an old man—”

“I have lent him my pistol, Catherine, and the woman is bound. I’ll check later to make sure all is well.”

“But—”

He pulled back and glared at her. “Do you question my authority to do this, wife? As his brother and as the magistrate?”

She curtseyed. “No, my lord husband. My apologies.”

He raised her up. “No, let me apologise. This has been a sad day, and I know not whether to rage or to weep.” He held her close. “We mustn’t be at odds now, Catherine. You are all the family I have left to me.”

“Until I bear your son, you mean.”

“Yes, until then.”

She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “I was just about to prepare his body.”

“Then be a good sister to him and do so. I’ll keep vigil while you do.”

Feeling a hypocrite of the worst kind, Olivier knelt by the trestles on which a board and Thomas’s body had been laid. Catherine and her maid removed the canvas, and one of the maids gasped in shock. “Be respectful, girl,” Catherine snapped. “This is your lord’s brother.”

The maid muttered an apology. After that, the room was silent save for the soft sounds of Thomas’s body being stripped, washed, and dressed again in fresh, unbloodied clothes. Catherine sent the women away, and she knelt with Olivier to pray for Thomas’s soul.

After he felt he had done what honour demanded, Olivier rose. “I’ll take a meal in the library, Catherine. I’m out of sorts and poor company. I also have to check on the good father.”

“You don’t wish me to sit with you, husband?”

“No. I need time to think. But I’ll join you in bed later.”

“Very good, my lord husband.”

He kissed her cheek to take away any offence and let her go off to her other duties. He gazed down at his brother’s still, pale face. “Thomas, you should have gone into the army,” he whispered. “Now I’m alone and I can’t even mourn you with honest sadness.” But Olivier did mourn, as much for the evil impulse which had made Thomas attack Anne, as for his brother himself. However he’d died, Olivier would always remember Thomas the bright, sunny child, everyone’s favourite. And miss him terribly.

He returned to the church and left the pouch of coins where he’d said he would. Henri seemed like a brave, competent fellow, and Olivier could only hope he had enough sense to carry out this dangerous task without endangering Anne or himself. Anne had entered his life two and a half years ago, like a summer storm, powerful and demanding, and it was strange to think she would be gone from his life after this night.

But at least she would be alive. Could he have really hanged her? Especially knowing it was an unjust act? No. He was no killer, and certainly not of the people he loved.

**************************************

The house clock chimed ten, and Olivier, still awake and wretched, came to the window and looked towards the church. Not long after, he saw a darkened lantern and what he thought were two shapes running away to the trees. _It is done_.

He heaved a sigh. Now all that remained was the playacting, and a prayer to the Almighty for Anne’s safe travels.

**************************************

Anne’s escape and Thomas’s death were the subject of gossip and innuendo for months, so Catherine, thin-lipped and angry, reported, and Olivier himself heard on those few occasions when he had to mingle with wider society. Baron Rénard was tasteless enough to twit him at Mass during Advent over it, earning himself the rarely used sharp edge of Olivier’s tongue. “Oh ho, someone’s a little thin-skinned,” Rénard said, not a bit abashed by a young and apparently incompetent _comte’s_ wrath. “Maybe next time you’ll hang the bitch on the spot and not fiddle faddle about over her immortal soul.”

“You _are_ in church, Rénard.”

“And she belongs in hell, yet thanks to you, she’s free and no doubt killing other innocents. One day justice will catch up with her, mark my words.”

Fuming inside, Olivier smiled politely and hoped the old bastard would be dead long before he had the chance to see Anne again, if ever. Rénard’s whey-faced son, Edmond, was a poor specimen and in time would be as loathsome as his father, but at least he was younger than Olivier and couldn’t use respect due to age as a defence when Olivier verbally slapped back.

Her brother had returned and offered effusive apologies for the sorrow his family had wrought. Knowing how dark the man’s soul must be—for Olivier doubted he’d ever confessed his sin of incest or anything else to a priest—Olivier had accepted the apology but made sure Catherine knew the man was _persona non grata_ from then on. She didn’t question his decision, fortunately. They didn’t need another cause of conflict between them. Anne’s escape had strained matters between them, and a second miscarriage just after Christmas had made things so much worse. The midwife suggested that conjugal relations be paused for a month or two to allow Catherine’s body to fully heal, and Olivier had agreed of course, not wanting to risk his dear wife’s health.

Unfortunately, gossip from the village had reached Catherine’s ears claiming that her husband had been overfamiliar with the woman who’d murdered his brother. That Olivier was suspected of having kept up illicit meetings with her after his marriage. And even that Anne had murdered Thomas because he was about to expose the fact she was pregnant with Olivier’s child.

Olivier had denied all of it, though he was guilty of sins no one suspected, and Catherine claimed to accept that denial. “But you must have done something to give cause for this,” she shouted at him in frustration. “Why your name and no other man’s?”

“Idle minds create nonsense out of nothing. Anne was the daughter of an old friend of my father’s. We were acquainted, and I admit, friendly. But once you and I were betrothed, I shut down all contact with her.” After, all, he had not initiated their only, completely innocent meeting before Thomas’s death.

“It’s bad enough that the world believes me barren, husband. Now it thinks my husband is spilling his seed elsewhere. For all the good it may do you,” she added in a mutter.

“What does that mean?”

She lifted her head and stared insolently at him. “It means that perhaps it’s not my womb which is flawed, but what it’s sown with, Olivier. How was it that your father only had two children?”

“Be quiet,” Olivier snapped. “How dare you slander the dead thus?”

“How dare you make me a laughing stock whoring around with sluts like Anne de Breuil?”

Olivier inhaled and counted to ten. “I did not and do not whore around with anyone. I will excuse your ill-tempered language because you are unwell. But you will not repeat such things to me again.”

“Or what? You won’t sleep with me? You’ve just promised Madame Lacroix that you won’t anyway.”

“That is for your own good, Catherine. I will sleep in my own room until it is meet that we resume marital relations.”

She apologised sweetly the next day, and Olivier accepted it, but her taunts still rang in his ears, and kept him from being as warm towards her as a good husband should be.

The issue of the succession hung over their heads. Thomas was of little help running the estate, and more worry than anything else, but he was at least a viable heir. Olivier’s only interest in the title was for the sake of his sons, so if he had none, then it mattered little if it fell into disuse. But to Catherine’s family, it meant a great deal more, so for her sake—and because he had always wanted children—he would keep trying to help her bear one. Or two. Or as many as she wanted. The midwife had assured them both that once she bore her first child, the next would come easier. He had to hope so. Right now, the constant fretting was driving a wedge between them, and he had rarely felt so lonely. Not since Anne had moved to Pinon, at least.

He celebrated his twenty-fourth birthday in January, three and a half years after he and Catherine had wed. By then, they had both given up the hope of a child, and sex between them had also ceased almost entirely, though they often shared a bed for the sake of form and mutual company. When Catherine could stand it, at least. Her disappointment at not becoming a mother had sharpened her tongue and worsened her temper, and more and more Olivier took refuge in the library, or in riding, or out hunting. It was not how he wanted his marriage to be, but he had no idea how to mend this between them. Soft words and gifts were mocked, his attempts to turn lovemaking into something more pleasurable for them both had been rejected in disgust, and he refused to force his rights as a husband on a wife who was all too clearly not inclined to accept them willingly. The household ran as smoothly as always, though with a notable diminution in smiles and laughter, and for all he could tell, things would remain that way until one of them died.

But fate took a hand two months later, in the form of a summons from the king, for Olivier to form a company of thirty men and join his forces against the Duke de Soubise and the Huguenots at Île de Ré.

“You would leave me here and defenceless?” Catherine cried when he announced he would be leaving within two days.

“You would have me disobey the king, _madame_? You realise that is treason.”

“No, no, but...you are taking our best men.”

“I have no choice, Catherine. Your brother and his wife will come to your aid, as will your father. I would have no argument with your calling on Rénard, if you have to. The campaign is not likely to run to years.”

“You have no idea. You’ve never been to war.”

“No, but the region is small, the king’s army is large, and the English king is sending ships. It could be over before we arrive.”

“Or you could come back in a coffin.”

Annoyed, Olivier bowed elaborately. “Then, _madame_ , you should rejoice, because you would be free to marry a more pleasant and fertile husband, wouldn’t you?”

She put her hands over her mouth in horror, her eyes filled with tears, and Olivier regretted his nastiness. He took her into his arms, and petted her. “My dear, I won’t be alone, and I know my weaknesses well enough to stay out of trouble, I hope. This is my duty as a nobleman. With privilege comes responsibility. So let us be brave, and pray for my early return.”

She allowed him to sleep with her that night, and even make love. Small comfort, he thought, for leaving her alone in the house for months, possibly years. He hoped not years, but who could know? Still, his father had instilled in him the obedience to duty and the fighting skills he needed to obey his monarch, and he would do just that. He promised to write as often as possible, and rode out, resolute but worried about his wife and home.

**************************************

Nothing had prepared Olivier for battle. Not for the noise, the smell, the grinding boredom and the heart-stopping fear. Not for the rage at incompetence, nor the horror at seeing young men slaughtered within moments of entering their first battle. He’d never been so tired, so frightened, so _dirty_ and at times, so hungry. He hated it, but for all that, he had never felt so alive, so filled with purpose. Not even succeeding to his father’s title had given him this sense of being destined for a role. That it was a role that he loathed, was an irony he didn’t want to address.

He wrote as often as he could to Catherine, which wasn’t as often as he wanted to. He received no letters in return but that didn’t surprise him in the least. Communications were a nightmare in battle, and only the most essential messages from the king or generals might have a decent chance of getting through. He wrote with no expectation of Catherine receiving them, because it kept him tied to his real life. He missed La Fère and her, Pinon and the rich countryside of his estate. He missed not having the smell of gunpowder and iron and blood in his nose, the taste in his mouth.

He wrote of his longing to come home, and every bit of news he received which indicated the campaign might end, he passed on. When the siege was lifted in September, he expected to be home within a month, and told Catherine this by a letter he sent back with several of his men who were wounded and would never return to the fray. Frustratingly, the king demanded he remain, along with other nobles, until the peace treaty was signed. In the end, he did not return until after his twenty-fifth birthday, though most of his surviving men had gone before then. He had lost five, each one of them a great loss to their families, and he would do something to compensate them for that, if he could.

Even with the sorrow of those deaths, he couldn’t help his heart lifting in happiness as he rode down the lane to the estate. Cold it might be, the trees leafless and the fields empty, but it was home and never more lovely to his mind. He was resolved to begin again with Catherine. Try again for children, be the loving husband she deserved, the companion he wanted to be. No more would unkind words erect fences between them. He would keep his temper and be patient, as he would for the least tractable of his horses. He should do no less for his spouse.

He strode into the house, calling for Poulain, his father’s old valet, and for his wife. Poulain came running as fast as his old legs would carry him, and bowed. “God be praised, my lord, for your safe return.”

“Thank you, Poulain. I suspect my clothes may have to be burned but see what you can do with them. And bring soap, clothes and hot water to my chamber.” It was too cold for a proper bath but by God he would shave and wash. Even Roger smelled better than he did. “Where is my wife?”

“I’ll see to the water and other things, my lord.” Poulain scurried off without answering Olivier’s question.

Irritated, Olivier shouted again. “Catherine! Damn it, won’t someone tell me where my wife is?” He pointed at a maid walking towards the kitchen. “ _Mademoiselle_ , fetch my wife to me. I’ll be in my chamber.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He walked upstairs and went to his room. Everything was in order, apparently untouched since the day he left, as he’d wanted it. He threw his saddlebags with his books and papers onto a chair and sat down to remove his boots. “Poulain! Hurry up.”

He stripped off his clothes, dumped them on the ground, and then naked, put on a gown to await the promised hot water. The two weeks of travel caught up with him quite suddenly, and he was dozing when at last the door opened. “About time...Catherine!” He stood and smiled. “My dear, how good it is to see you.”

She entered the room, dressed in heavy furs and robes befitting the freezing weather, and curtseyed. “My lord husband.” Strangely, she came no closer.

“I missed you so much. I know I smell but can’t I have at least one embrace?”

She didn’t move. Puzzled, Athos went to her, and tried to pull her into his arms. “Catherine, is something the matter?” She struggled, and he would have let her go but he was seriously concerned by her strange demeanour. “Talk to me, wife. What’s wrong?”

She froze as he managed to get his arms around her...and he felt the mound of her stomach. He seized her shoulders. “What is this? Are you with child, _madame_?”

She pulled away from his grip and answered carelessly, “Why yes, I am, husband. I found someone whose seed was more suitable.”

“And who might that be?” Olivier kept his voice quiet and polite because if he gave way to his rage, he didn’t know what might happen. “Answer me.”

“Baron Rénard. He has been a great comfort to me.”

“Has he now. And will he provide for your bastard, or does that honour to fall to your parents? You don’t expect me to raise another man’s child, do you?”

She lifted her chin. “I don’t care what you do. Set me aside, and he will take me in. Then when you die, he will annex your estate and make me the mistress of it.”

“Thought it all through, have you? And what if I do nothing?”

“Then my bastard will become your heir. Is that not what you wanted?”

“What happened? Did you assume I’d return in September and hope to pass it off as mine?” She looked away, which was all the answer he needed. “If you had come to me and said you needed a child more than life, and Rénard—well, not him, someone with an ounce of decency—could provide one, I would have let you, Catherine. I would not have denied you this most important of earthly roles. But to go behind my back and make me a laughing stock—”

“Like you did with Anne de Breuil, you mean.” Her face twisted in an ugly sneer. “People saw the two of you. Saw you kissing and making love, and saw her here even after your father’s death! You expected me to be chaste while you were free to do as you wish? While my womb remained empty and aching for a child?”

“As I said, if you had come to me—”

“You’d have done _nothing_ ,” she spat. “Your father said you were weak. My parents know it too. My father regrets very much that he agreed to this marriage.”

“Does he. How kind of him.”

The homecoming he’d dreamed of for months was a nightmare. His dream of raising a family, dust and ash, and now his wife despised him and was pregnant by a man Olivier could not loathe more. Should he send her back to her parents? Send her to Rénard in shame? Stay here and raise the bastard, while the world laughed at him for a fool and a cuckold?

“Get out,” he said.

“What will you do?”

“Right now, I’m going to wash, and then eat in here. You will keep yourself and your belly out of my sight. If I have anything to say to you, it will be in writing. Leave!”

She swept out, though he’d seen fear in her eyes. She was lucky she wasn’t Rénard’s wife. He would have had her whipped.

He collapsed onto a chair and put his head in his hands. What could he do? Why manage an estate, hold onto a title, so another man’s spawn could prosper? But if he turned her away, he could not marry again. He would live here in lonely, pointless splendour with no family, and not even the comfort of the one woman he had truly wanted. Even if he found Anne again, he could offer her nothing but disgrace and death by execution.

He washed and changed, and took a fresh horse out to Guillame’s house. He spent much of the afternoon going over his ideas and plans, then rode back to the house, unhappy but resolute. He wrote the letters he needed to, called Poulain to help him pack again, and gave him instructions for what to do with the rest of his belongings. He slept hard, but not long, and rose before dawn. He sent for a breakfast he could eat on the road, and demanded provisions for a day’s ride. Then he left the letters he had written with the housekeeper, saddled up Roger, and left, intending never to return.

He stayed at an inn in Paris, and took three bottles of wine with him to the room. He drowned his misery in the wine, and woke hungover and sick. The cold water in the ewer cleared away enough of the wine’s hold on him so he could do what he had come here for. He asked for directions to the musketeer garrison and rode into the courtyard there while the men were still at their breakfast. “Who is in charge of you?”

A big man, dark-skinned, bearded and menacing rose from his food. “Who’s asking?”

“I am....” He refused to use his title again. “Athos.”

“Well, ‘Athos’, the man you want is Captain Treville. He’s up there.” He pointed to a balcony near the mess. “I’ll take you up there.”

“No need.” Olivier dismounted, and tied Roger to a post.

“I think there is. Seeing how you’re a stranger and all, with all those fancy weapons.”

Olivier’s nostrils flared with annoyance, but had to admire the man’s protectiveness. “As you wish.”

The man climbed the stairs ahead of Olivier, and knocked at a door. Bid to enter, he opened the door and stepped through. Olivier waited while the man, greeted as ‘Porthos’, told the occupant of the office someone wanted to see him. “He says to come in,” Porthos said, and stepped aside to let Olivier through.

A middle-aged man with the bearing of a soldier stood behind a desk. “That’ll be all, Porthos.”

“Yes, captain.” Porthos gave Olivier one last glare, then left, his feet thudding hard on the stairs.

“Well?” the man—Captain Treville, Olivier assumed— demanded.

“I wish to join your regiment, sir.”

“Is that so? Why?”

“I...was at Île de Ré. Montmorency sang the praises of the Musketeers. It was clear there is no finer body of men in the king’s service, and I...finding myself in need of occupation, decided to apply here.”

Treville sat down and regarded Olivier rather as Olivier’s father would regard a broken down horse. “And I should take a stranger with an unlikely name for what reason? Who are you? Who did you serve under at Île de Ré?”

“I did not...I mean, I led my men under Admiral Montmorency.

“So you’re a nobleman. Are you running from the law?”

“Not at all. I am merely tired of my estate and have abandoned it.”

Treville gave him a look of frank disbelief. “And you still haven’t given me a reason to take you on, let alone your name. So no. I take no one without knowing who they are, and what they bring. We take the best here, for we protect the king himself.” He turned to his paperwork. “Close the door behind you.”

“I...know sword and pistol, and ride a good seat.” Treville continued to ignore him. “I am the _comte_ _de La Fère_.”

Treville sat back in the chair. “Finally. You were really at Île de Ré?”

“I returned two days ago. The king demanded I remain with other nobles until the treaty was signed.”

Treville nodded. “If I refuse, where will you go?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far.”

“Why have you abandoned your estate? The truth now.”

So Olivier told him the sordid tale of his wife’s affair with Rénard and her pregnancy. “Since the estate is to benefit my family, and I have none left save Catherine, and is still my wife, I thought I may as well let her have it and do what she wish. My good name means nothing any more, I have no heir, and the only other skill I have is to fight. So I am open to any offer if you will not have me, but I would prefer an honourable one.”

Treville pursed his lips. “Very well, I’ll take you on a recruit. You could buy a commission though.”

“I wish to earn my place.”

“Admirable. I hope you like shovelling shit.”

Olivier smiled. “Some of the happiest days of my childhood were spent shovelling shit, sir.”

“Then come back when you have lodgings, because you can’t stay here as a recruit. Your horse can be stabled here, but you’ll receive no pay, no deference, and no quarter. Your first test when you return will be to fight Porthos. If you survive, we’ll see how you go.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. What name do you want to use, if you’ve abandoned your title?”

“Call me Athos. My name is Olivier d’Athos. Athos will do.”

“Well then, Athos. If you come back, you can have a chance of joining us. If you don’t, then I wish you luck. Close the door behind you.”

Olivier—Athos—did as he was told, and walked down the stairs. Porthos watched him until he rode out of the yard again, but didn’t speak a word to him. If Treville was right, Athos would have a hard job standing up to those big fists.

He looked forward to it.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, comments, criticisms and corrections craved!


End file.
